


We Can But Follow to the Sun

by ArdentKnight



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: A lot of metaphors for the sun, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, But not quite, Drama & Romance, Entirely incorrect assessment of historical places, Incomplete, M/M, Mikleo is fashionable, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Potential horrific mistranslations via Googletranslate, Sorey is a nerd, Sorey is our sunshine boy, This is quite possibly purple prose, Vampires, it's complicated - Freeform, love happens, no seriously, not quite tainted!leo, vamp!leo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 23:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12568548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdentKnight/pseuds/ArdentKnight
Summary: The fire started as a small spark. When it consumed him, Mikleo was uncertain. What he did know was that he was all too willing to burn.Or, alternatively: A love story, told in reverse.





	We Can But Follow to the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> So, to start, I'd love to thank my absolutely perfect beta, who is a mistress of the night and therefore cannot be named here. Additionally, Krisseycrystal and Kokoai were huge helps to me and I love them a lot. This work is definitely incomplete, but I'm going to try for updates twice monthly. Title comes from the poem of the same name by Emily Dickinson. Thank you for reading and Happy Halloween!

After a while, the cities blended into an indistinct haze. Melding together like the passing of seasons, lights blurring at high speeds, the skyscrapers ceased to amaze and the smog of too many cars left an unpleasant scratchiness in his throat. Mikleo didn’t know why he was in one; he tended to avoid cities since the incident of ‘24, but he found he couldn’t help drifting towards them when the thirst, ever present, started edging on desperate. It was a catch 22, really. He did this to himself.

This particular situation was not quite as dire as what could be expected in a city like Sao Paulo, yet he couldn’t shake the urgency quickening his steps under a pale half-moon. Heels clicked on cement as his heavy cashmere coat flapped behind him angrily. Adjusting the scarf around his neck, he dug his hands further into his pockets, aching for some gloves to match. Not many people were out tonight -- unusual occurrence though this was -- and more than one copper had given him a second look. He supposed he couldn’t fault them for their sound intuition. He was a predator, after all.

Or maybe he was over-dressed.

It wasn’t nearly as cold outside as many of the places he had been in away from the equator, but the chill bit into his skin anyway. For a vampire, temperature affected him to an unusual degree. Blood would go a long way to ease his discomfort; there was an overabundance of it raging through such a packed city. Yet, a pervasive clawing at the back of his mind said to wait. There was something familiar eating at his senses that told him to _hurry, or you’ll miss him._

He turned the corner and picked up a familiar scent. Faint, but unmistakable was the unique smell belonging to a man he had last bumped into in Nimes, France. What was alarming was another distinctive smell.

Mikleo ran.

The stench of blood clogged his senses; he didn’t know if he was hurrying to help or hunt down his next meal. There was a fog in his mind as buildings flew by like echoes, people a smudge in his peripheral. Hair lost its graceful wave and scarf was blown to the wind. A spike in scent jolted him to a wary stop. Steeling himself, he walked backwards to look into the alleyway just before, and he could swear his long-dead heart gave a fearful jump. There was a body on the ground. 

In one mad leap he was upon the body, turning it over and gazing into the washed out face of a man he had not managed to forget despite the years. Mikleo realized he had not listened for the faint heartbeat still pumping when eyes fluttered open at his contact. He sucked in a breath. One green eye shone with a mild haze, but the other was a milky white. Mikleo had missed so much.

“Marceau?” The man spoke, reaching out a hand to his face. Mikleo’s smile was pained; he always remembered his names whenever they met.

“It’s Marcelino, currently.”

“You haven’t changed,” he remarked, tracing a shaking finger against his face. Mikleo felt it run down the center of his nose to pause at his lips. He obediently opened his mouth and let the finger poke at his canines. Mikleo caught the hand before he could prick it and laced their fingers together.

“I can’t say the same about you.” A dark look fell across Mikleo’s features. The stench of blood permeating his nostrils was intoxicating, a solid line of sun dripping down his throat like honey. A sweet sensation of home was dislodging his instincts, preventing him from immediately pinpointing the wound. The pallor of the man’s skin hinted at its intensity. “How bad is it?”

The man chuckled faintly. “Now you’re concerned about me?” He shifted, and Mikleo’s eyes zeroed in on his other hand. It was covered in a layer of murky red, gripping loosely at a small knife embedded in his side. Inhaling sharply, shards of glass tearing at his useless lungs, Mikleo trembled as he reached for the weapon. Careful not to dislodge it, he studied the depth of the wound. It was difficult to tell with the sluggish dripping of molten blood filling his senses, each drop magnified as it hit the cracked pavement below, the steady sound a stake to his heart.

The man tugged at their interlocked fingers. Mikleo dragged his eyes back up to stare at discolored ones with herculean effort. Only the green eye stared back; the other was forever lost to an eternal white light. “What happened?” Mikleo rasped.

Unbelievably, the man managed a blush, mottled and pale, dusting across his cheeks. “She was being robbed! What else was I supposed to do?” He exclaimed.

Mikleo could picture it all too clearly. Wandering out late on a nightly basis in an attempt to cross his path, screams for help would reach attentive ears and of course what else would he do but heed the call for assistance. “And? The victim?”

“She uh… she ran off when I showed up.” Mikleo hissed. Typical prey nature, yet entirely unappreciated in this case. Maybe if she had stayed… No, she would’ve just been a larger distraction. He cared far too much for his fellow man. Once, Mikleo’d been the same. Now it was lost to the hands of time. 

“There are no bodies,” Mikleo said, question unspoken. 

The man’s lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “They got away. I thought they were down, but when I turned…”

“He stabbed you.”

“I didn’t expect the knife. He took his comrade and ran.” He attempted to shrug, but it jarred the wound at his side. A high-pitched whine was released instead.

Mikleo became serious. “Your wound, it grows fatal.” He caressed the hip he once knew intimately. A flash of the first of many nights consumed his mind. Moonlight against a tan shoulder. Hands touching hands. 

_(“I don’t wish to hurt you.” “I do.”)_

The man looked at him, soft at the edges and with a warmth purer than the sun. “I know,” he said.

“Sorey,” Mikleo breathed, releasing the man’s name into the universe like a prayer. He pulled at the hand in his own, tugging it so the wrist rested against his cheek. Mikleo turned to press a kiss to the pulse point. His voice stricken, mouth full of ash, he whispered.

“Please?”

Sorey smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Next time: Nimes, France


End file.
